Feeling Faint
by RaspieAspie
Summary: A short one-shot about Morse's aversion to blood. Rated M for gore.


The early morning sun glowed orange over the proud spires of Oxford university as the black jaguar crunched its way down a gravel side road. It pulled to a stop outside a small, rickety shed half buried in the surrounding foliage. The building was listing to one side and its glass window pane had long since been broken out. Overall, it created a gloomy, unsettling atmosphere.

Three of the jaguar's doors swung open, and Morse stepped from the driver's seat, followed by Thursday and Jakes.

Having heard the car arrive, Max DeBryn stuck his head out the open door of the shed and beckoned them inside. "He's in here gentlemen," he said with a grim smile.

Morse covered the short distance to the dark entryway, but DeBryn blocked his view of the interior. "I'm going to warn you Morse," he said in a hushed tone, "it's really not pretty in here. This man's face has been completely obliterated courtesy of a close-range shotgun blast, and it appears he exanguinated from some large wounds to his major arteries before being shot. Most of his blood supply is pooled in that room. You really don't have to come in if you don't want to, Jakes and Thursday can provide the pertinent details I'm sure."

Morse had already paled somewhat at DeBryn's description, but he swallowed and said stiffly, "I'll be fine, thank you doctor." He was well aware of Jakes smirking and Thursday trying to hide his concern behind his shoulder.

DeBryn stepped aside obligingly, and Morse stepped into the room, followed closely by Jakes and Thursday. He was greeted immediately by the heavy smell of iron in the air, so potent he could taste it. He looked up at the feeble yellow light bulb dangling from a cord in the middle of the room, then forced himself to drop his gaze to the grisly scene at his feet.

Morse's breath caught in his throat at the sight. Large puddles of blood, several so deep they hadn't yet dried, pooled on the dirt floor. Bits of brain matter, skull and skin lay spattered on the ground and stuck to the stone wall behind the body, and a scorched bloody pulp sat where the victim's face once resided.

"Jesus Christ," Jakes murmured.

Morse felt bile rise to his throat, and did his best to force it back down. His chest became tight and he gasped for breath, feeling a prickling heat creep up his neck, followed immediately by a sharp chill.

"Morse? You all right?" Thursday's concerned voice came from behind Jakes as the older man stepped forward to get a look at his bagman.

Morse could barely hear him through the ringing in his ears. He nodded weakly, but grey static had already started creeping into the edges of his vision. He felt himself stumble sideways as someone, probably Jakes by the proximity, reached out to steady him. His legs buckled beneath him and he let out a small whimper as his eyes rolled back in his head and the static obscured his remaining sight.

"Morse!" Jakes yelped as Morse's thin frame crumpled like a rag doll in front of him. Instinctively his arms shot out and he caught the younger man before he hit the ground. Jakes had expected to collapse under the dead weight, but Morse was alarmingly light.

DeBryn observed the scene in front of him and sighed with slight exasperation. "I did try to warn him," he said, making no move to relieve Jakes of his burden.

Thursday moved to stand in front of Jakes, who was starting to struggle not to drop Morse. "I'll take his legs and we can sit him down outside," Thursday remarked.

Together the two men carried their unconscious friend back through the door and lay him down flat on the gravel outside. Thursday pulled off his overcoat, folded it up, and slid it under Morse's head, then produced his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit coat and mopped the sweat from his bagman's clammy brow. He caught Jakes trying to hide a smirk as Morse's eyelids began to flutter, and said sternly, "I'll not have this paraded around the nick, understand? Otherwise you and I will be having a conversation with Mr. Bright."

Jakes ducked his gaze reproachfully. "Yes sir," he mumbled.

Morse groaned and squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows.

Thursday knelt next to him and eased him slowly into a sitting position. "Easy does it lad," he said, "you're all right, just took a bit of a turn back there in the shed. Sit there a minute and have a rest, that's it."

Morse dragged both hands over his ashen face as colour began to return to his cheeks. "Mmm, what happened?" he slurred.

Jakes couldn't help himself as he smirked, "You took one look at that crime scene and nosedived into the floor."

"That's enough Sergeant," Thursday snapped. He turned to Morse and added, "I'll go and fetch the doctor."

Alone with Jakes and still feeling acutely unwell, Morse looked away wordlessly, pretending to fascinate himself with the school spires he could just make out in the distance.

DeBryn appeared behind Thursday a moment later. He stripped off his old gloves and pulled a clean pair from his bag, along with his stethoscope. "Perhaps the next time I recommend avoiding entering a place which I as a medical professional suspect will overwhelm your delicate sensibilities, you shall listen to me, hmm?" he said disapprovingly as he unbuttoned Morse's shirt and slid the stethoscope beneath it.

Beside him, Jakes choked and had to step away.

Morse sighed with humiliated irritation as the doctor felt his pulse in his wrist. He knew he was going to be the laughingstock of the station if Jakes had his way.

"A bit thready," DeBryn remarked as he put his stethoscope away. "Some orange juice and a lie down and you'll be right as rain. Oh," he looked up at Thursday, who had been hovering, "and I needn't tell you he's in no fit state to drive."

"Jakes can get us back," Thursday said, "and I'll see to it you get something in you a lot better than orange juice, come on." Together he and the doctor helped Morse to his feet, where he stood unsteadily for a moment. Eventually satisfied that his bagman wasn't going to keel over again, Thursday held out his hand for the car keys, which Morse reluctantly handed over. He then turned to Jakes, who was standing several metres away, and shouted, "Jakes, come on, you're driving!"

"Where to sir?" Jakes asked as he sidled up, "A and E?"

"Very funny," Thursday said, handing him the keys, "we're going to the pub, sharpish. Got to get something decent in Morse, doctor's orders."

Morse sighed with humiliation as he followed his friends back to the car. He knew he wouldn't hear the end of this for a long time.


End file.
